


Where a Phone Call Might Lead

by DevineMandate



Series: If Only [2]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29290857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevineMandate/pseuds/DevineMandate
Summary: Sliding Doors take on Strike's briefly considered, quickly aborted attempt to call Robin after the trip to Barrow in CoE.  Some quotes from CoE for setup.
Series: If Only [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2151129
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

_In fact, thought Strike, sitting up on the bed, it might be an idea to call Robin right now and give her Brockbank’s number. She was alone, he knew, in the Ealing flat, while Matthew was home in Masham. He could call and perhaps--_

Oh no you don’t, you silly fucker.

_A vision of himself and Robin in the Tottenham had bloomed in his head, a vision of where a phone call might lead. They were both at a loose end. A drink to discuss the case…_

On a Saturday night? Piss off.

…

It was hours later, and the idea wouldn’t leave Strike’s head. His thoughts continued to revolve around Robin and her single status.

 _Not for long_ thought Strike. _Her ties to Matthew are strong; she’ll forgive him and go back...unless…_

“Fuck it all,” said Strike, and when his phone rang and Elin’s name appeared, he was glad that he had a window to do what was necessary if he was really going to pursue this buffoonery.

…

_She had expected Matthew to return home from his father’s on Sunday evening, but he did not. When she checked the calendar in the kitchen at eight, she realized that he had always intended to take Monday off. Presumably she had agreed to this, back when the weekend had been planned, and told Matthew that she would ask Strike for a day’s holiday, too. It was lucky that they had split up, really, she told herself bracingly: she had dodged one more row about her working hours._

_However, she cried later, alone in the bedroom that was thick with relics of their shared past: the fluffy elephant he had given her on their first Valentine’s Day together…_

…

Robin’s phone rang. She saw Strike’s name, and thought, with a lightening of mood, _He’s calling about work!_ This was what she needed! To get her mind off the past, to not continue readjusting her treasured memories to account for Matthew’s infidelity during that awful, awful time. Sod him and Sarah effing Shadlock anyway.

 _IS Cormoran calling about work?_ said her intuition, but Robin batted this back down into her subconscious, unwilling to dig into her uncertain and uncomfortable feelings in this area just yet.

Robin wiped her eyes and blew her nose subsequently on a tissue and cleared her throat to get the evidence of crying out of her voice. Then she answered.

At the other end, Strike was perspiring. He was just about to cut the call and consider himself lucky to have escaped his own foolish inclinations when Robin answered the phone. Caught awkwardly between nerves and a quickly abating feeling of relief, his mind offered him no idea beyond what he’d planned to say in the first place.

“Robin. I had an idea about Brockbank. I know it’s late, but wondered if you’d be up for a chat.”

“Yes, absolutely, the Tottenham?” said Robin, to Strike’s immense surprise. He hadn’t even had to begin steering the conversation toward an in-person rendezvous.

Glee followed shock, and he heard it leaking into his voice despite his best efforts. “Great! I’ll send you home in a cab, agency paying of course.”

“Wait. What about Elin?”

Did he imagine it? Was the question just about this evening or was it, as he suddenly suspected, more generalised than that? _Don’t be daft!_ He opened his mouth, fully intending to say “ _She had to cancel this evening_ ”, but what he said was:

“We’ve split up, actually.”

There was silence for several tense seconds. Then Robin said, “I’m so sorry, Cormoran.”

“Bah, we weren’t going anywhere anyway,” said Strike, dismissing further discussion. “Now, how about that drink, er, talk?” _Fucking Freudian slip!_

Robin again said nothing for a few seconds. “All right.” There was a note of caution in her voice, but he could have sworn there was something else there too. Interest? Consideration? Measuring possibilities? _Fucking stop it!_

“Nice, I’ll see you in half an hour?”

“Yes, that sounds fine,” said Robin.

“Speak to you soon then,” said Strike.

“See you soon,” said Robin, and she ended the call.

On her end, Robin mulled over the conversation and finally let a few submerged feelings float to the surface. Why had she suggested the pub? Why had joy surged through her when Strike had said he and Elin were over? Was it a coincidence that her split with Matthew had been followed so quickly by Strike’s with Elin? 

Robin went to her closet, and told herself that she was choosing her outfit for its professionalism ( _It’s work_ she thought to herself over and over again) and not the way it clung to her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some obvious insertions of material from Troubled Blood.

Robin felt a bit as though she’d returned to the scene of a crime. Not very long ago, she had thoroughly spilled her guts to Strike in this pub, on the back of a few drinks and no food.

He had taken it in stride, reacted better than she’d have believed any man possibly could. He had expressed legitimate sympathy, but had not constantly looked at her with pity thereafter. So far as she could tell, his behaviour toward her had not changed an iota since she’d told him about her past. _Might be just a little warmer to me, actually._

Maybe that’s why she had suggested the pub...maybe deep down, she knew the Tottenham was their confessional...it was often the place where their relationship morphed...

_Easy there, Ellacott. You just took off the ring a few days ago._

But she was even happier than usual to see Strike’s bushy hair standing out in one corner of the pub, and his energetic wave and obvious happiness at seeing her boosted her even higher.

“Robin, hi! Hope you don’t mind, took the liberty…” He gestured at a glass of wine sitting across from him.

“Trying to get me drunk and confessional, are you?” Robin instantly regretted saying it, as Strike looked both confused and like he’d been caught at something. “Sorry,” she said, sitting down. “Just thinking about last week and all.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a fine tradition: one of us should get drunk and morose about our ex in this pub a couple of times a year. It’ll keep our friendship nice and cosy.”

Robin laughed and sipped her wine, pleased at the word “friendship”. She said: “True. I’ll reinvigorate our relationship some time down the line when I learn about some other infidelity of Matthew’s in the past...or present…”

“Fuck, Robin, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, I need to stop thinking about it, I’m sorry, Cormoran. What was this idea you had about Brockbank?”

Strike briefly explained to her his thoughts on the acquired phone number and Robin being the best person to pursue the line of inquiry.

“Yeah,” said Robin, after he was done, thinking of how much faith he placed in her, thinking of him calling her his “partner” in front of Wardle. “I think you’re right that Venetia Hall might be the person best suited to this job. Give me the number; I’ll get to it as soon as I have a moment and it’s a reasonable time to call.” Strike texted her the information.

“Cheers,” she said, taking another drink. “Anything else I should know about Brockbank? Other ideas you might have?”

“Not really. I know you will be, but be careful. He’d hurt you as soon as look at you, especially if he knew you were connected with me.”

“Don’t worry, I’m highly commended, remember?” Strike laughed and took a large swig of his beer. Robin wondered if it was his first of the evening. “Dragged me out here to give me a phone number and a quick idea, hm? Definitely justifies the expense of sending me home in a cab.”

Strike stopped drinking and looked at her with a gleam of mockery in his eyes. “As I recall, this was your idea. Anyway, don’t be silly, I got you out here to up our closeness quotient by getting you pissed and confessional, remember?”

“It’s working,” said Robin, and she finished her wine. “Another please.”

The wine was procured, and drunk more quickly this time, Robin slugging it back, Strike following her into mild inebriation with another beer of his own, drunk equally quickly.

After she put the glass down, liquid courage worked its magic. Her tone when she spoke again was loaded with subtext. “Why am I here, Cormoran, really?”

Strike felt suddenly afraid, and pretended not to take her meaning: “No need to fish for compliments. You’re a very intelligent woman, brave, good actress, organized, ‘swhy you’re here, you’ve got a lot of bloody potential as a detective.”

But Robin would not be pushed aside by flattery. “I suggested the pub, but you took me up on it. Why am I here, Cormoran? Why are you spending the agency’s money frivolously to have a two-minute conversation we could have had over the phone?”

Strike’s walls were crumbling in the face of alcohol and Robin’s beauty and persistence. His guard was lowered, the beer in his blood was whispering that maybe he and Robin could both have what they wanted and had never had: a thoughtful, loving partner that understood what it took to be successful in their chosen profession. He looked steadily into Robin’s face.

Robin felt ill at ease under the intensity of Strike’s drunken but intelligent gaze. His affection for her shone on his face more clearly than she’d ever seen, and she knew that something was about to change irrevocably between them when he spoke. Her breath felt trapped and stale in her lungs.

“I suppose,” said Strike, with the fatalistic daring of a trapeze artist, swinging out into the spotlight, only black air beneath him, “Robin, the truth is--I just wanted to spend time with you.”

The implications in his tone could not be missed. Robin leaned backward slightly and eyed him with what he thought was a clinical look.

“All right, shit, hold on,” said Strike, feeling like a man building a plane and flying it at the same time. His body felt light and floaty, as though he’d filled himself with helium. “You’re important to me, Robin. We’ve known each other barely a year, and I think you might already be the person I feel closest to in my personal life. On top of that, you’re a fantastic co-worker with incredible potential--partnership potential. I _really_ don’t want to fuck that up.” He trembled before he went on, but he was in so deep that there was no point in hiding anything now. “I admit there are...other feelings...you being pretty and all…” Robin’s heart bounced haphazardly in her chest, the floodgates on her own feelings opening wide. “That’s there, very much there, but it’s so much less important to me than that we keep this relationship together at all. You’re invaluable. As a person. If you’re not interested in that other part, any discussion of that ends now and forever. There, that’s what I have to say.”

Silence for several seconds. Strike felt as though a roulette wheel was slowing and he was about to find out if his high stakes wager would come through.

“Did you have sex with Ingrid?” said Robin, completely blindsiding Strike.

“Who? Oh! No.” Strange that he could feel incensed when he was so terrified. “Jesus, Robin, what kind of man do you think I am? I was dating Elin; I wouldn’t do that.”

“Good. I’m glad.” Then a longer pause. Strike thought her preceding question and subsequent response were not indicative of someone who was disgusted, but he was still sweating and unsure of where he sat. “What if I was?” said Robin.

“Was what?”

“Interested.”

Strike’s heart thudded a little harder, but he tried to maintain cool, and gave her a clinical look of his own. “ _If_ you were...then I’d want to wait, I don’t know, six months? A year? Before any of that could even start to enter the picture...you just split up with him, you need time: I wouldn’t presume to ask you on a date at this point. Fuck, I feel like I shouldn’t have said anything now, but I just couldn’t have borne it if you’d gone back to that...to Matt and I hadn’t said anything.” Robin saw the shadow of desire and longing pass very briefly across Strike’s face before he continued. “But will you...if you _are_ interested...when you’re ready, will you think about it?”

Robin looked at Strike, thinking how she should be feeling like her whole life was in turmoil and distressingly unfamiliar--the ring off her finger and Strike making polite overtures and the implications for her job--but no such feelings arose in her. She felt calm and confessional. She barely felt any blood move to her face when she said:

“I _have_ thought about it...thought about you. That night at the Travelodge. I thought about you coming to my room on some slim pretext…”

“Fuck me!” said Strike.

“I briefly considered doing just that,” said Robin, smirking slightly, feeling powerful (he had put himself in her hands so thoroughly), and she saw a drop of sweat run down Strike’s staring face, past his neck, and into the matted hair peeking out of the top of his shirt.

 _Oh, to be that bead of sweat…_

A vision of herself and him tangled together came to her mind, stumbling through the doorway of their building, kissing with heat as they slowly mounted the stairs. The two of them unable even to wait to get to his flat, him lifting and pressing her against the office door, her reaching for the waistband of his trousers...

"What if I don't want to wait?" she said. "What if I want to go home with you right now?"

"Holy shit," said Strike. “Never imagined the conversation taking this turn,” and Robin watched him weigh his words delicately before he spoke again. "I’d be thrilled and honored but no. Not even if you really mean it. I mean of course I _want_ to. I don't think anyone who likes women wouldn't _want_ to--you're incredibly beautiful, Robin--but it's too soon. What if your split with Matthew were to be impacted by this? Matt thinking he was right all along and all that. I don’t think you making any decision like that the week after your break-up is healthy at any rate."

Robin sighed, but felt glad he had come to the conclusion that she would have reached herself, given a few unheated minutes to reflect. “You’re right.” All the confidence she’d felt a moment ago vanished and was replaced by doubt and shame, and now blood did rush to her face. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said that…”

“No, don’t say that! I’m chuffed you did! I hope you feel the same way as time goes on, but now’s not the time. Just keep it in mind...please. Don’t be sorry. I’m so happy we’re friends; like I said, I don’t want to ruin that.”

“I’ll try,” said Robin, “to not let my own conduct embarrass me.” She felt like she had to make amends. “Cormoran, I...you’re…” The truth hit her, and she was almost as surprised as she was happy, and though she was afraid, she was even more pleased to share this truth with him. “You’re my best friend.”

Strike’s lips pursed, and he looked into his lap.

“I...well, the feeling’s mutual,” he said, trying not to sound too happy.

Their reciprocal affection declared, they lapsed into companionable and joy-filled silence for several minutes, Strike occasionally sipping his drink. Then he said: “I don’t really want this night to end, but you should go. Whoever the Shacklewell Ripper is, he’s not going to respect the deepening of our relationship as a reason not to come after you.”

“You’re right. Here, walk me outside.”

They stepped out into the London night, Strike maintaining a respectful distance. Robin considered hugging Strike, but thought that, even after tonight’s discussion, it might be a bit too familiar, and potentially heighten feelings (in both Strike and herself) she wasn’t perhaps ready to encourage just yet in light of his wishes and concerns.

“Thanks, Cormoran. It’s been...enlightening. I’ll give Brockbank’s number a try soon. Need to go home now and get a bit of sleep. Ergh, so glad Matthew is still away tonight, no row about seeing you. I think he’d manage to be put out even though we’ve split up.”

Strike hesitated briefly, then threw caution to the wind. Why not say it, why not let go? “He’s a bastard,” he said, “and an insecure wanker to boot.”

Robin felt her resolve give out, and moved closer to Strike and put her arms around him, Strike’s shoulders and arms initially stiffening with surprise.

When his arms closed around her, she almost gasped aloud. Happiness and contentment erupted inside her heart, flying through her bloodstream. She had come home, and everything was all right; she felt her sadness about Matthew withering in the face of this revelation, her pain more than halved. Robin pushed herself a little closer to Strike, him squeezing a little harder in response, and she breathed in the smell of him: cigarettes and deodorant and a trace of the raw, musky scent of his sweat.

Neither of them let go or said anything for a minute or two, and then they each took a step back at the same time. They both tried to simultaneously acknowledge their happiness to each other, but also downplay the impact of what they’d felt inside, so that their awe didn’t show on their faces.

“See you tomorrow, Robin,” said Strike, grinning, buzzed on hug endorphins.

“See you tomorrow, Cormoran,” said Robin, reeling under the avalanche of feelings their hug had unleashed. She walked a bit down the pavement and caught a passing cab.

Before she could open the door, he raised his voice to make sure she heard. “Robin!” yelled Strike, desperately in need of one piece of reassurance. “You won’t go back to him, will you?”

Robin stopped, was still a moment, then turned around, smiling shyly. “No, Cormoran, I _won’t_ go back to him.” Then she got into the cab and it drove off.

Strike headed for his flat, glowing and at ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If she and Strike had hugged before Robin's wedding, Robin never in a million years would have married Matthew.


End file.
